


bird/nerd: three and three

by Frektane



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Character, Fluff, Inclusive Marvel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:10:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frektane/pseuds/Frektane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>whatacatchbucky on tumblr prompted "I love you more" contest</p>
<p>i took it a bit of a weird direction</p>
<p>(or: three times scott cared, and three times warren cared)</p>
            </blockquote>





	bird/nerd: three and three

It starts with pancakes.  


It’s eight-thirty a.m. on a Saturday morning, and Warren sticks three half-formed pancakes to the ceiling of the mansion’s kitchen before he manages to flip one and have it land, sizzling, in the pan. The smell of cooking batter and chocolate fills the air around him, and he puffs up just a little in pride.

“You’d probably have less trouble getting them to flip right if they were just plain circles,” Jean observes from the kitchen table. “He can’t even see the shapes.”

“I’ll get him to touch them,” Warren says, shaking the pan around. “Or… something. I’ll tell him what they look like.”

“Doesn’t that ruin the surprise?”

“No. Maybe. Shut up.”

(Scott cuts into one before Warren can speak, and in the ensuing moping fit Warren explains that they were _hearts_ , dammit, it was supposed to be cute.

Privately, Scott thinks it’s adorable. But he pats the big feathery dork on the shoulder and says “the chocolate chips were a nice touch.”)

* * *

Scott Summers does not show much affection publicly.

Instead, he combs out Warren’s feathers for the fourth time in three days, tugging out loose down and stacking the molted flight feathers neatly next to him on the floor. Every time Warren shifts on the bed, the breeze from his wings sends the feather pile fluttering every which way; Scott has down scattered in his hair and stuck to the edges of his glasses.

Warren won’t stop grumbling, more or less wordless, a steady stream of discontented noises—and he keeps twisting around to try and scratch the tender skin at the base of his wings. His back twitches and flexes, trying to shudder out of the sensation.

“You should grow a beak,” Scott says, deadpan. “That way you can preen.”

Warren whines, long and drawn-out. His head is bowed; Scott can feel the tension in his neck, knows that if he reached up all he would feel is the shock of fine hair at the back of Warren’s skull.

Scott is a little gentler, after that, and he pushes the heels of his hands into the tense muscles at the base of Warren’s wings.

* * *

That summer is hot and humid, and neither of them sleep well.

For Scott, it’s nightmares. Every night.

On Wednesday, he accidentally punches Warren in the face. On Thursday, he rolls into a blanket burrito and shakes wordlessly for two hours. On Friday, he blasts the window so hard in his sleep that he takes out the flowerboxes hanging from the sill.

On Saturday, Warren rolls over at the first sign of trouble and drapes one wing over Scott, letting the muscles settle onto his shoulders while the longer feathers cloak his torso and legs. He presses his chest against Scott’s back and tucks Scott’s head under his chin, silent, solid.

In his sleep, Scott mumbles something indistinct and distressed. But he curls up a little tighter under Warren’s wing, and that night he doesn’t cry out or try to fight.

* * *

“I know what you’re doing,” Warren says, grinning, upside-down and hanging by his legs from a tree branch.

“Yes. Studying,” Scott says. “Like we all should be. This is a _school_ , you know, technically.”

“No—not that.” Warren reaches out and taps Scott’s nose with one finger. “The name thing.”

“Name thing?”

“Whenever I _really_ exasperate you, or I’m doing something stupid and kinda dangerous, you call me Angel.”

Scott tilts his head up at that, face completely bland. “That’s your codename.”

“Yeah,” Warren says, stretching his arms over his head until he touches the grass. “But you use it as endearment, don’t you? It’s fondness.”

“I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about.”

“You totally do!” Warren crows triumphantly, cackling as Scott whacks him hard in the shoulder with his textbook. “It’s so nobody else can tell! Oh my God, you think you’re being _subtle_!”

“Shut _up_!”

(Scott drags him out of the tree, eventually, and mock-pummels his shoulders until they’re both laughing. But he doesn’t deny it.)

* * *

The inside of the jet is quiet. Somber.

Scott doesn’t speak as he works, but his hands are careful where they position the splints over Warren’s left forearm. He feels for the break, murmuring apologies under his breath when Warren sucks in a sharp, pained breath.

“I should have been quicker.”

“It’s not your fault.” Scott winds medical tape around Warren’s wrist, securing the splints. “ _I_ should have been quicker; I could have shot him out of the air before he hit you.”

“Scott, it’s not—”

“I’m supposed to protect my team, on the field. Protect you.”

Neither of them say much, after that.

(Warren knows what he means.)

* * *

A week later, Scott’s the one who gets hit instead.

It’s a punch to the gut that breaks three of his ribs, and he falls back against the wall and sinks down, out of breath, one hand on the button to his visor. The other guy’s big and built like a brick wall—literally, his skin hard and mortar running along his joints, and according to the five-way telepathic link he’s bright crimson. Scott doesn’t know where to aim; he can hear the _thunk_ of booted footsteps on the sidewalk, but there’s the screams of other combatants and Hank shouting in code to Bobby and—

He hears the crash of a landing three feet in front of him, feels the rush of wind on his skin, and Scott nearly shoots Warren in the back before he realizes what’s going on.

He sees it through Bobby’s eyes, through Jean’s view, and Warren spreads out his wings in front of Scott’s collapsed body, looking for all the world like a huge, pissed-off swan.

“Hang in there, Scotty,” Warren calls back, voice cavalierly reassuring. “I’m gonna fly you out of here as soon as I teach this ugly lump why he doesn’t mess with the X-Men.”

“Drama queen,” Scott says, though it’s more of a wheeze than actual words.

He thinks he hears Warren’s grin. “All for your benefit, O Fearless Leader.”

(Warren holds him a little too close to his chest when he finally flies Scott out of battle and, well—

—Scott’s not complaining.)


End file.
